


Maybe A Little Different

by Velvetoscar



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:25:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velvetoscar/pseuds/Velvetoscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No relationship is like another, and Harry really wants Louis to understand this. So he uses flowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe A Little Different

Maybe A Little Different

He’s sitting at home, waiting for him to return, and it’s the part of the day where the sun is blood orange and it soaks into the soft silk of the curtains and the scraps of paper clustered around him.

A tattered leather-bound journal lies in his lap, with one name written over and over… It’s repeated on the page, like it sounds in his head.

_Louis, Louis, Louis_

He shouldn’t be this clingy, shouldn’t be this antsy, but they’d gotten into a bit of a fight last night—the same kind that they always do, Louis shouting bitterly about the time apart, the insane demands of a trust that few are ready to uphold, and the complete and utter exhaustion of it all. And today, when he went round to where Louis said he’d be, he wasn’t there. Harry’d come, smile bright and ready for the thrill of surprise and amends, and Louis wasn’t fucking there.

“He left about an hour ago.”

And that’s all Harry needed to hear to wipe the dopey grin off of his face. Because he came, he fucking _came_ , and Louis wasn’t fucking there.

So he sits now, shrouded in late afternoon shadows, feet bare against warm oak floors, and lazily slides his pen across the page. Bits of shitty poetry lie unwanted around him—he tore out those bits, doesn’t want to see them because they’re absolutely not good enough—and when he tilts his head back, catching the breeze that sneaks through the cracks of the windows, he can smell the musty perfume of dead flowers. They lie on the windowsill, dried and brittle, and Harry loves them there. Louis hates them, says they’re morbid and depressing, but he lets them stay because Harry watches with sad, peering eyes whenever Louis makes to clean them away.

_Louis, Louis, Louis_

He’d collected new flowers today, though.

Because Louis wasn’t there, wasn’t fucking _there_ the day that Harry came to see him, Harry’d had to make a new purpose for his leaving of the house. He absolutely had to justify stepping into a too-bright sun on a much needed day off—one he had hoped would be far away from daylight and any form of ‘outside’ imaginable.

But he’d actually put on his trousers AND his fucking shoes, and walked there. Woke up _early_ so that he could walk there. So, naturally, Harry continued walking after his disappointment. Walked to the old theatre that had its dusty doors opened wide, allowing summer breezes to flow through and breathe life to the empty creakiness.

He slid in, eyes immediately seeking the stage and, maybe, envisioned Louis standing atop, perfectly styled hair glowing under multicolored lights. And, maybe, he smiled just a bit despite the sourness of disappointment he still bore in regards to him and his own fucking failed surprise.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he continued his stride toward the stage front. He could see them there, the little wilting remains of the flowers that had been flung the night before. They lie in soft heaps, crimson mingling with gold, fuscia scratching against cream, and—just there, near the front—the unmistakable sunshine of daffodils.

Louis’ favorite.

With great care he collected each flower, petals fluttering to the chipped wood of the floor. He counted them, one by one, and was pleased to discover he had over four dozen. They were faded, yes, and a little droopy in posture, but they were utterly gorgeous all the more for it, because Harry loved flaws, and he wanted Louis to love flaws, too.

Because perfection is boring, he told Louis.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Yes it does. Because perfect things can’t be appreciated because all they are is perfect. But things that have some good bits and some bad bits are special. Because the good bits are more good.”

“ _’The good bits are more good?’_ What are you even talking about? Just stop, Harold--you've gone and embarrassed yourself again.”

“I’m serious!”

“But that’s your problem, innit?” he’d said, and smiled in that tan, smug little way that made Harry’s own smile turn a bit more wicked and a bit more sunny. With smiles to match, Louis kissed him, appeasing any threat of a pout.

But Harry wanted Louis to see the flaws, wanted him to _love_ the flaws, and understand that the best things in life are scratched or dirty or ugly. That, just because something may be difficult or hard to see, it doesn’t mean it’s not beautiful. Or perfect in its own distorted way.

So he hugged the flowers to his chest and walked home, an occasional petal falling loose and gliding on the wind behind him.

As soon as he’d entered their flat, he sprinkled some on the table, some in the sink, the floor, the dusty corners, tucked them in the pockets of every jacket he could find, and scattered chrysanthemums under the bathroom mirror.

Only the daffodils remained. Bright, odd, and a little obnoxious: like Louis. He immediately brought the petals to his nose and lips, pressing his face into the cold, velvety skin.

Doesn’t smell like Louis.

With a tiny grin only he himself would ever know about, he stroked his thumb over the petals one last time before bundling the flowers together and stuffing them into the only vase Louis and him possessed—a large, chipped, pea-green one that Louis had insisted they buy at an antique store in one of the many nameless towns they had briefly inhabited. It was ghastly to behold, bumpy and gaunt on the surface as it had clearly been made by hand—and poorly.

“But it’s so ugly it’s charming!” Louis had insisted.

“I told you so!” Harry immediately responded, eyes alight.

Louis lowered the vase, quirking an eyebrow. “What on _earth_ are you talking about?”

“You like it because it’s ugly. ‘S not perfect, but that’s what makes it perfect, see? Am I right?” Harry’s grin was victorious.

Louis merely rolled his eyes. “Whatever, Harry. Point is, we’re getting this because nobody else in the world has one and because nobody else in the world will buy it. I feel bad for it.”

“Because you think it’s beautiful.”

“Will you stop trying to be philosophical, man??”

Harry responded with a beam that held a fair portion of smugness.

And so they bought the wretched vase, and have looked after it ever since.

But now, with the freshly collected flowers everywhere and the dead ones Harry insisted to keep still sitting on the windowsills, Harry sits on the floor and draws Louis’ name.

It’s just as the room’s light has begun shifting from a saturated orange to a mellow, blue-tinted glow, that the door opens loudly, keys jingling in the lock, and the sounds of shoes being kicked off clumsily cut the silence of the large room.

“Honey, I’m home!” calls the cheeky voice, and Harry doesn’t even care that he’s wasted the day alone, because all he can see is Louis’ giant impish grin and the millions of bags he’s barely managing to carry.

As Harry eyes each bulging purchase, Louis eyes the flowers littering his surroundings and, as eyes return to each other, they collectively utter a:

“What’s all this?”

They exchange grins, well-eased into the practice of mirroring each other verbally, and (as is custom) Harry nods to Louis to speak first, almost rocking on his heels.

“I got you presents,” Louis says immediately, thrusting _all_ the bags at Harry.

“What?” Harry laughs, clumsily grabbing at each one Louis shoves into his chest. “Why’d you do that? I don’t need presents—you buy me them all the time.” He doesn’t voice the _‘I thought you were mad at me, why did you buy me presents—you’re not mad anymore?’_

Louis rolls his eyes with all the suffering of one teaching a petulant child. “That doesn’t matter, _Harold_. Presents are fun.” He grins, clearly proud of himself.

“You spend too much money.”

“And you don’t spend enough! Now, wait to open them—one by one—until after dinner because I’m starving and I need to explain each one individually.”

“All right,” Harry agrees, smiling with an excited fondness that causes him to duck his head, looking down at the massive load in his arms.

“Now, then. Why the hothouse?” Louis nods to the counter where the daffodils stand, surrounded by little sprinklings of their friends.

“I collected them today. From the stage,” Harry says, dopily but proudly, until he suddenly blinks into remembrance. “Heyyy,” he protests, immediately furrowing his brows, “Where were you today? I went to surprise you and you weren’t there.” He sets down the bags before folding his arms in a clear sign of disapproval.

His response comes in the form of a tilted head and an upturn of sly, pretty lips. “You actually came to see me? Aww, bless,” Louis coos, words blanketed in a smile, and he reaches a hand to tug Harry’s shirt, bringing him closer.

“But you weren’t there,” Harry repeats, still pouting but resting his hands on either of Louis’ hips.

“Course not. Was buying you all these presents, wasn’t I?”

“Oh.”

“The question is, why in the _world_ were you collecting flowers from the stage?”

Harry’s grin returns, unabashed. “Because I liked them. Don’t you like them? I found some daffodils.”

“I absolutely adore daffodils. But why not just buy them? Why scuttle around on a dirty floor? Honestly, Harold, sometimes I think you like to make things difficult.”

Harry shrugs, grin still present, hands now encircling Louis’ waste. “I like them like this better. More real.”

“You’re not going on about ‘perfection’ and ‘flaws’ again, are you? You need to stop; you’re starting to sound like Zayn.”

“But I mean it,” Harry insists, nudging Louis’ hip with his own. “They’re not perfect, right? They’re not what everybody else has or wants. But they’re better because of it. Because, even though they’re a bit different, and sometimes not always so pretty, they’re more important because of it. Cuz the best parts are made all the better by the bad ones.” Harry pauses and releases a small smile. “Even if the bad parts are stressful and exhausting.”

Louis’ smile is slow to spread, calculating Harry’s face as realization dawns behind amused eyes.

“But they’re going to decompose, Harold. They won’t be very pretty when they’re stinking up the bin,” he teases, linking his arms around Harry’s neck.

“You know what I mean,” Harry glares, but his smiles never falters.

“I think I do, yeah,” Louis sighs. He runs an absent hand through the thick masses of Harry’s hair. “We’re a couple of wilting flowers.”

“Exactly. Really incredible wilting flowers. Better than all the mundane, typical, “fresh” flowers out there. We wouldn’t _want_ to be ordinary.”

They smile in synch and there’s a beat of silence as unspoken understanding exchanges between the two. Because fuck, they would never be the norm, would they? Harry’d come to understand this long ago, but somehow Louis never had.

Well, until now, he supposes.

Their lips meet, the way they have a million times before, and the kiss is a promise of solidity, patience, and devotion and Harry adores that he knows this from the simple contact of Louis’ lips. And adores even more that he knows Louis knows this, too.

When they break apart, it’s only so that Louis can scrunch his nose as Harry nuzzles him exaggeratedly, forcing little chuckles out of him.

“They’re beautiful, Harry,” Louis suddenly says, voice fond, nodding toward the daffodils on the counter.

Harry beams like sunshine.

“But—and this is for your own good—luv,” Louis says with a twist to his mouth, burrowing his fists in the fabric of Harry’s shirt, “if you ever call me a dying flower again, you’ll be cut off from sex.”

A burst of laughter erupts from Harry.

“Promise you won’t?” Louis teases through a widening smile, spurred on by Harry’s clear amusement. _“Promise??”_ he presses, now in full laughter, tugging Harry’s shirt for emphasis.

Giggling—actually giggling like only Louis can make him do—Harry nods, placing his hands over Louis’ on his chest.

“I promise, Lou,” he laughs as a gust of wind rattles the windows, filling the room with the scent of flowers.

 

The [Happy!] End.

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Weeell this was incredibely fluffy and ridiculous. But I suppose I just wanted to write something that took the complications of this relationship and gave them a slightly positive spin. Because their dynamic is lovely but it exists in a totally different world than any relationship I'll ever have--and it's interesting to think of their "norm" vs our "norm." Anywho. 
> 
> For extreme 1D fangirling and writing bits: my tumblr = mizzwilde  
> (For non-1D, I'm also velvetoscar) 
> 
> Also, obviously, this is a work of fiction. (I think? Heh.) It's just some fluff that I ended up writing when I really meant to shut off my laptop and focus on boring things. Oops. ;)


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